


Duty

by saintsavage



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Adult Content, Adultery, Mental Breakdown, Miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-04
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:59:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2714810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsavage/pseuds/saintsavage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A look inside Lysa Tully Arryn's head/marriage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duty

She didn't deserve him. Lysa Tully of the riverlands, with hair like braided firelight and a face _almost_ as pretty as that of her sister, did not deserve to be shuffled off to the edge of nowhere. She did not deserve to be married to a man so aged he creaked like old wood when he walked. She did not deserve King's Landing, reminding her of everything she'd lost each time she managed to get Petyr alone. Judging her. She did not deserve the North, with hours that dragged on until they seemed like years.

 

All for Duty.

 

Oh, how she did not deserve duty, above all things she wanted to scream to spare her that. _Duty_. The word was filthy in her mouth, ashen. _Do your Duty, Lysa._ Her father's voice, disappointed but determined to fix what is not broken. _Sweet Lysa, I know it isn't what you wanted, but it is your Duty._ Catelyn's voice, firm yet hesitant, as if she knows something is wrong, but Lysa knows that Cat won't help. _Come now, it isn't so bad._ Edmure, spineless boy, doesn't dare say the words to her white face and furious eyes.

 

Later, Jon Arryn comes to her room. She waits for him to repeat the words, is prepared to hate him. _I... I am sorry, Lysa. You deserve better than an old man, but I must do my duty_. He hates it almost as much as she does, and it is a balm to her burning soul. Little Lysa Tully does not love that man, but Lysa Arryn will, in her own way, because he deserves it.

 

And when their babies all die in beds of blood and desperation she loves him more, needs him more as he hides in musty libraries, wrapped in his chain of hands. She worries that he'll get cold when he goes out, frets that he doesn't have enough blankets, that he isn't sleeping well. She questions his cooks and maids, demands to know what he's eaten and left behind on the plate; berates them for not feeding her lord husband properly. She tracks him through cold stone rooms and empty, burned out hearths. Follows the smell of pipesmoke like some sort of hound, intent on finding him.

 

Lysa needs her troubled husband most of all when Petyr seems so far away from her, dismissive, even curt. When he holds her like she isn't there and the sound of his voice asks the questions he doesn't ever speak, not even too her. _How is my Cat? Is she lonely? Does she miss me?_ He drinks news of Ned Stark's wife down like it is the only thing sustaining him and Lysa learns to dole it out carefully lest she give it all out too soon; then Petyr might find a may to be away from her for weeks. She doesn't deserve that, either. Lysa Arryn, Lady of the Vale, tells herself each morning (before a mirror that through the years begins to displease her) that Petyr loves her. That he stays away for her, for her protection. In the safety of her isolated rooms she does as she always has: she tells herself a story, and believes it to be true.

 

When he asks about Cat and his voice quivers, shimmers, breaks, Lysa swallows the sound like cheap wine, _it's because he loves me so much_. _Not her. He can't even say her name, not like he says mine in an impatient tuft, softly like he can't help himself_. When he talks of her Stark-wed sister he never runs his hands through his hair, a quick, agitated ruffling of his cool calm. That gesture says I love you, it does. It has to. And it is only for her when she defies his commands to be careful, when she sneaks from her rooms, sailing boldly through her doors as she comes to him in a cloak of sunshine instead of starlight. Brief moments, so very brief. Always with Petyr's head buried in her neck, hiding in her hair. He told her once that all the Tully's had the same, remarkable hair.

 

Moments like that are stinging nettles, but she continues to tell their love story to herself, to her reflection in clear glass, until she doesn't remember the hurt; even as her babies continue to fall out of her in rivers of Tully red, still as stone, Lysa tells herself this story like it is a prayer. Her absolution.

 

The day she gives her wearied Lord husband Sweetrobin she is proud, so very, very proud. Finally, she'd done it. Lysa Tully Arryn had done her duty, joining the ranks of Mothers and dutiful wives everywhere, and it had filled her with the sort of joy she'd never expected to feel again, the sort of joy that comes with being chosen, with being the one kissed in the rain. The one who was asked to dance, again and again, five times over. She had given her husband a son and now he'd love her, surely he would! Her world would be wonderful again, her letters to Cat unstained.

 

But Jon does not praise her, does not smile and – his worst sin – he did not turn young again, as if he were a prince under a spell. In the end he is still grey-haired with the worries of great men smudged under his eyes. His concern skips over her body, over the weak, mewling boy at her breast, settles on her dying hopes. _You should rest, Lysa_.


End file.
